They Lie
by Apothescarie
Summary: The beeping doesn't wake her anymore, and for that, Chat is grateful. Her quiet, tender goodbyes used to leave him feeling as if frostbite tingled in his limbs, but now it is her restful silence that pulls at his heartstrings. He's lying to her and it kills him. A two part angst drabble from my Drabble Collection on Ao3.
The beeping doesn't wake her anymore, and for that, Chat is grateful. Though she no longer shifts and exhales and looks at him with sleepy eyes, he still gets the same cold feeling in his chest. One of guilt, gripping long frozen tendrils around his heart as he reaches over the headboard and jimmies the window open. Even now he looks back just to make sure she hasn't slid into wakefulness, a mixture of relief and disappointment when he does not feel her hands weakly grasping at his suit or tail. Her quiet, tender goodbyes used to leave him feeling as if frostbite tingled in his limbs, but now it is her restful silence that pulls at his heartstrings. He's lying to her and it kills him.

The window goes up, and he's lying to her.

The window slides down easily behind him and he's lying to her.

The jump from her fire escape to the courtyard is two stories up. He springs, a silhouette against the moon hanging high, knowing his suit will protect him.

He lands safely, as he anticipated, and sprints off onto the sidewalk parallel to the student dorms, runs a block, and curtails into a narrow alley.

He releases his transformation and now it's Adrien that's lying to her, but it's all the same. Plagg falls into his hands, the small kwami already a slave to sleep, and Adrien tucks him carefully away into his coat pocket. He makes a mental note to buy his friend something special as soon as he can; he's been working the poor thing to the bones like this for weeks.

He isn't afraid that anyone will see him. It's 4:15 AM on the dot and he knows the only place open this late is a donut shop a block away. He makes for it at a lackadaisical pace, feeling his own thoughts weigh on him; his bones heavy and sins heavier.

The air is brisk. He feels wisps of it caress his neck as he jaywalks lazily across the deserted road and onto the path leading up to the shop. Goosebumps rise up his biceps and he bites down the instinct to crook his head and roll his shoulders.

The OPEN sign flickers in a fit of half-working neon.

The door swings smoothly open into warm, sweet air and he's lying to her.

He produces eight euros for a baker's dozen glazed and two hot chocolates and he's lying to her.

Before he could begin to start feeling his legs again he's on the move. The waitress bids him farewell, waving his tip to her happily in hand. The door is opened, closed; the cold air spreads its arms to embrace him once again as he passes under street lamps headed for whence he just came. Plagg is snoring lightly. It sounds more like the mewls of a kitten, and for a blissful moment, Adrien's heart is warm where his kwami is pressed against it. However, he has never felt so lonely.

Weeks ago his father left for Milan, taking Nathalie with him. Naturally, Adrien assumed he would be participating in these sort of business adventures; he was an Agreste, after all. Surprisingly, though, Gabriel had made it clear that his son should stay at home; be the "man of the house" as it were, while he was away. (Not like Adrien was filling in a big pair of shoes. In fact he would have to size down a few, because it was really Nathalie that ran the goings-on of the house.)

Nevertheless, and ever obedient, Adrien had agreed. For the first few days everything was swell. The young man, age 19 (soon to be 20), had stood reverently before his maids and servants, butlers and cooks, and spread his hands before him formally.

"Please, take the next two weeks off. I beg of you, go home, see your family, get some rest, and report back in the middle of the month. You'll be paid as if you're working, and don't worry, okay? I can cook for myself and I won't make a mess. And the most important rule: don't tell my father."

The mansion's population rang at a solemn one (two, counting Plagg) within the span of time it took for his more loving maids to iron off his last bits of laundry, and his cooks to leave a few pre-made meals in the refrigerator.

He promptly ran amuck.

Poor kid, though, no true rebel, just spent the next half hour running up and down the stairs and yelling and singing at the top of his lungs, swinging around banisters with gusto. His body burst with the zest of being let loose, the freedom to scream as loud as he wanted and dance like a maniac with no worry of a knock on his door with an etiquette appointment scheduled immediately after the outburst.

The world was in the palm of his hand until exactly seven days later. It had been a week and the true emptiness of the house echoed eerily. He laid stiffly in bed, feeling much like a skipping record, a whirring of distant paranoia that accompanied the complete silence of the mansion. If he wasn't doing something, anything, the house settled in around him, the huge rooms feeling effortlessly small. The constant footsteps of servants bustling up and down the hallways had been a mantra, and now that it was gone he felt wholly and truly alone. At night time the house would settle, as houses do, sagging down on itself after a long day of remaining upright. Even Plagg, usually chatty and sarcastic, had fallen into a strange quiet. Adrien sprung from his desk chair. That was more than enough.

"Plagg, claws out!" He was halfway out of his window before the suit was even on him. Skipping across midnight Paris was definitely one way to tap down the acid feeling of solitude sloshing in his stomach. Nearly bowling Marinette over the top of a roof, however, was not one he had expected.

Chat's momentum on his staff had him plowing right into her. For a moment there was only fear as he fell straight into her startled arms, his chin absolutely smashing into her collarbone. The both of them tumbled to the concrete with similar, strangled sounds, and for a moment the world tilted at the hasty fall. Frantic heartbeats filled the air, but then there was squirming under him and he remembered where he was, perking up immediately. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees despite the tinnitus in his ears, reached down to grab at the girl's arms, pulled her swiftly to her feet, and in that moment they locked eyes and swayed in a daze of darkness and bafflement.

"Marinette, for god's sake, what are you doing on a rooftop at midnight?"

"I could ask you the same question, Chat!" Her response was quick and sharp. He smiled. She reminded him more of Ladybug every day with that attitude.

"But could you really?" She was silent. His smile stretched wider. What had he been escaping earlier...? He couldn't remember. He was lost in the way the stars were reflecting in her eyes.

"I'm sorry about that," Chat apologized, spotting the hand she was using to nurse her collarbone. Looking at it made his jaw ache. He rolled it gently to test; it wasn't broken, so at worst, it would bruise. Nothing a little foundation couldn't fix...

"It's fine. It was an accident." She assured, smoothing the length of her night shirt.

But it hadn't been an accident when she'd led him down the stairwell and into the lobby of the student dorms.

It hadn't been an accident when she unconsciously let him memorize her room number as she struggled with the lock.

It hadn't been an accident when their platonic moments of camaraderie watching nature documentaries on her chaise became him curling into her lap with her hands in his hair and purrs rippling from his throat.

It hadn't been an accident when it became a routine; when he kept stopping by; when he curled into her bed that one night long ago and was awoken by his own ring.

When Gabriel returned from Milan the house was a hidden crime scene of Adrien's short-lived joy. The servants had gone back to work long before his father had even thought about stepping back onto Parisian soil; no signs of reckless abandon could be found in the mansion. Everything was tip-top shape, as usual. Gabriel was impressed with his son's good behavior- hell, he even told him so- and the kind of hot pride that raged through Adrien's sternum subsequently made him want to vomit.

'Good dog, you sat and stayed just like I told you to. Here's a pat on the back. I'll be going back to my office now. See you next time I yell at you.'

It was only hours after Mr. Agreste's return that Nathalie swept up to Adrien's room, tablet in hand. She told him monotonously that there was going to be a fashion show soon. He half listened, his eyes watching her thin red lips curl around words while his mind was in his hands, picking at a hole in his designer jeans. He gathered that it was a contest; one of the amateur ones they held annually. Adrien was to judge it, host it, and model the winning designs. (What else was new?) Other, more professional designers would have some of their couture displayed as well.

His jaw ached. He thought of Marinette.

And that was how he ended up here, standing in front of her dorm door holding a box of donuts under his arm, the hot chocolates radiating heat into his palms, sapping the freezer-burnt feeling right from them. With the information about the amateur competition, Adrien texted Alya, who then texted Marinette, who then requested Adrien's number because fuck if that wasn't the smart thing to do after knowing each other for years. They'd kept in contact after that. Nearly every day they were texting, and it marveled him how lively she seemed in their conversations. It was an enigma to who she was when they were younger- awkward and stuttery- But now, over text, she sprang to life with exclamation points and emojis.

Then, after weeks of silence from her (brought on by the designing stage for the contest), Marinette finally contacted him again.

[I don't know how busy you are... It's okay if you can't! But- I wanted to ask... Would you come over to my dorm a few times a week to be a mannequin for me? I understand if that's against the rules or whatever. I just thought it would be easier since, well, since you would be the one wearing them if I won. I wouldn't want to have to resize them at the last moment, you know?]

[Whats your address?]

It was only 5:01 AM. He couldn't just knock; he didn't want to wake her up just to invite himself in. They usually got started early, but... He checked his watch again, ansty. 5:02. Now was way too early. A sigh left his lips as he turned away from the door and began to fold down on himself to sit. He set the paper cups beside him on the top of the donut box and leaned back against the doorframe, tucking stray blond tufts under his beanie as he stared languidly over the wrought iron railing into the pale, overcast sky. Just an hour or two. He could wait.

As Adrien, he'd been coming and going almost every day when he could spare the time. The first few days they met were more or less quiet and a little uncomfortable but he chalked it up to her steely eyed concentration. He'd seen designers work before, but none like Marinette. She had a unique system of working, and even in the moderate silence, he watched her unorthodox methods, interested, just standing there and letting her flit around him like a moth with a tape measure in one hand and a white pencil in the other. As the visits became more frequent they loosened up; Mari would lounge around in sweats and shove food down her gullet while Adrien cracked awful Chat-esque puns.

The hours they spent together became longer and louder until one night Mari had let swing music play from her computer, and, caught up in the sound, he had taken her into his arms when she was measuring up a piece of dark fabric against his chest. She had let out a loud gasp, her arms crunching up in surprise and fingers dropping the materials in a clatter on the floor, but he swung her around and she started to laugh instead, clutching at his shoulders as he led her across the carpet, swaying and spinning faster and faster to the rhythm. He dipped her back when the last trumpet blared in solemn finality.

They locked eyes. She was blushing suddenly and the rosy color against her pale skin and dark hair made his throat tight. The sun was setting outside the open window. The music faded out. Everything was awash with colors reminiscent of fruits, and he was still holding her in that dip. Her knee was digging into his hip and he felt his heart pick up speed, chanting, "Kiss-her, kiss-her, kiss-her!"

Adrien leaned in. Back then he hadn't been lying to her.

Something shattered. Marinette jumped and his eyes shot open; she was escaping his grasp and running to the window. A black cat had leapt up from outside and knocked over a small potted flower.

For fucks sake, my luck.

It took a moment to connect the dots, get all the feelings swimming (or, really, splashing and drowning) around sorted into their correct files (or, really, hastily shoved under "DON'T THINK ABOUT IT"). When his systems booted back up, Marinette was bent over at the window, scooping broken pieces of ceramic into her hands. The cat had fled when it saw them standing there, and it had good reason to; the girl before him was seething and standing in dirt and sharp glassy fragments.

In her frustration, she apologized and asked him to leave and meet with her again tomorrow, and as he politely excused himself and closed her dorm door behind her, the only word that could describe him was unsatisfied. His heart was still screaming and beating walls in his chest and as much as he fought to breathe, the air just wouldn't fill his lungs.

"Plagg," He whispered, and swung over the railing as Chat Noir.

The moment he climbed up her fire escape in the sinking colors of the sunset, he made the decision to lie. He hadn't seen it that way, of course, knocking on Marinette's closed window and seeing her peek up from where she had just dumped soil and a broken pot into her trashcan. Her mouth made a flat line and she looked annoyed. Thankfully, she still made her way over to wrench the glass up with the strength of someone who was clearly angry.

"I've already had it up to here-" She raised her hand high over her head, "with black cats today. What do you want, Chat Noir?" She planted her elbows down into the windowsill and hunched into them, an obvious sign she was not inviting him inside.

Chat's leather ears flicked back and he dipped his head, giving the best "pitiful kitten" look he could manage. The first lie slipped out in the form of, "What? What happened?"

Marinette sighed, slumping forward to press her head into her arms with a long-winded groan. "...Nothing."

"Obviously it was something!"

"Well-!" Her head came up quickly, face pink and pushing dark hair from where it had fallen into her eyes, "It was something but it was dumb. I don't know, Chat, I just got embarrassed. That's all. A stupid cat broke my favorite plant and ruined the moment."

"Ohhh~ 'The Moment'~?" Chat playfully bit into his tongue, leaning his chin into the brick of the sill to gaze up at her.

"Don't get smug. It was nothing like that!" It was meant to be intimidating the way she responded, her back straightening up and her arms crossed over her chest, but her smile was telltale that he had broken through her bitter facade. Marinette turned her back on him and glided back into her dorm. Belatedly he realized that she hadn't even asked him how he'd known where she lived. Perhaps after bugging her for so long it just got lost on her. Superheroes just tended to know things…

He grabbed the ledge and hurtled himself over in a smooth leap, and the way he looked around at her space inquisitively was another thoughtless lie. Days later Chat's chin made acquaintances with her collarbone and Routine 2.0 was set into place:

Out her front door as Adrien, in her window as Chat Noir. Like clockwork.

"Adrien…?" They were pink socks. Fuzzy little things with a white lace fringe against a pale, thin ankle. He'd fallen asleep. In his hand was a hot chocolate that he'd been sipping on; it was half empty and cold and barely hanging on under the grip of limp fingers. He followed his line of sight up the leg and over a knee, past heathered pajama shorts and finally to Marinette's face. She was bent over him at the waist, holding her hair back with three manicured fingers. Her eyes were wide and blue as she gazed down at him- God so blue, so beautiful and blue. He smiled tiredly, unable to help himself at the sight of her, and fitted the heel of his palm into one eye and rubbed, feeling his beanie sliding off of his head.

"Good morning, Marinette. Donuts?" Adrien patted the lid of box wedged against his hip. Said lady crouched, a little half smile screwing up her mouth.

"How long have you been out here?" Her hands were against his cheeks, then the crown of his head, fixing the beanie back into place with a ruffle of his golden hair. Just that gentle touch alone had sunshine bursting in his chest, so bright and vibrant that the dark clouds that had been stewing there were revolted. The immediate clash jolted him; he wanted to cry.

And oh.

He was crying. He didn't notice it until she was wiping tears off of his cheeks with delicate thumbs, her expression falling as easily as his mood had crumbled.

"Adrien? Hey...what's wrong? Hey, it's okay- it's okay, c'mere, let's go inside..."

Adrien all but collapsed into her arms as she brought her milky limbs around him, filled with love. He hadn't meant to be so weak. He hadn't meant to steal all of her time away for himself, to lie about his identity, to fall in love.

As if in a dream, he found himself on her love seat. The box of donuts he had purchased had found its way to the countertop in the kitchenette, Marinette's all but frozen hot chocolate keeping the pastries company while his own half empty one had met it's demise in the trashcan. Warmth descended upon him from behind as the young designer leaned over the back of the sofa, sheltering him under the pink quilt from her bed; the same quilt that he'd been sleeping under hours ago and still held his cologne in the fibers.

The tears were gone, but a blackness filled the gaping hole that his crying had eroded away. He was trembling and it made him sick, stomach churning uncomfortably. His fingers felt cold again.

"Was it your dad?"

He shakes his head.

"Modelling?"

He shakes his head again, feels the beanie fall down his neck.

"...Me?"

"God, never." She must have been startled that he answered her, because her voice wavered in silence before she swung a leg over the top of the couch followed by the other as she clambered down to sit beside him, tucking her knees up to her chest and giving him a longways stare. She let them sit that way for awhile, eventually turning on the TV to drown out the quiet and softly pushing him to the side so that she could grab the edge of the quilt and bend it back long enough to cuddle under it with him. There is a clear space between them at this point, but as time lags on and the TV drones, Adrien finds Marinette sagging into him more and more until her head is resting in the curve of his chest. She's out like a light and he tries not to move for fear of waking her with the slightest misplaced movement. She must've been exhausted; it was only 8 o'clock and she'd had a long night with Chat... With him. He wishes he could draw a line between the two, but it's hard to categorize the characteristics of one tride-and-true person without literally splitting it down to the hair.

He wishes he could tell her everything.

Wishes he could will the words out of him, to thank her for being such a good friend, thank her for finally drowning out her awkwardness towards him, thank her for letting him feel something real.

He wishes he could explain how much it meant to Chat to have a window to crawl into at night; another home, as she'd allowed it to be.

Wishes he could detail every emotion that flooded through him at the mere thought of her smile.

Adrien wishes he could stop lying. But if it's Adrien and Chat both lying to Marinette, doesn't that mean she's in the wrong as well? Intimate encounters with them both with nothing to say to either. Jealousy of his own damn self lays another layer of bricks upon his chest and he wants to crumble. He wonders if she favors one over the other; wonders what would happen if he left and never came back; realizes that's cowardly, idiotic, a thought born of anxiety and fear and sorrow.

He wonders why he lies.

Wonders if he can stop.

Wonders if it would be so bad.

Wonders how she would react.

Wonders why she's awake again until he notices that he'd been unconsciously twirling his fingers through her hair.

"Ah, I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that…" Adrien says on instinct, beginning to unwind black strands from his fingers until she smiles and shakes her head.

"No, I...I like it." Something about how admittedly genuine her response is makes his hands stay. The smile on his face is small, hardly noticeable, but hers is wide and just a little shy.

It feels surreal, this moment. Marinette's cheek settles slowly, questioningly, down against his ribs as he curves his palm against the back of her skull. Three years ago she could barely get out a sentence, not to say that it had particularly bothered him, but that fact coupled with the present situation felt extremely out of odds. His heart ached. He wondered if she could hear it throbbing under her ear, feel it in the joints of her fingers.

The silence swells with a tension Adrien is afraid is only his own. He wants to clutch at her, anchor her against his body as he feels himself slipping. She is a rock and he is as loose as the tide, a wish wash of hurt and love all at once, and he can't stop himself when his tongue flicks up against his teeth and in a moment of tender weakness, his blunt fingernails scrape against her scalp.

"M-Marinette-" She's up on her elbows at the wavering in his words, those immaculate blue eyes brimming with concern.

"Adrien." Is all she says, and the hard edge of her voice has him sucking in a breath to steady himself.

"Marinette, I-" Adrien can feel himself shaking his head even as his intestines wrench up to force the words out of him. He wishes it were vomit instead, honestly, his eyes and cheeks burning and chest squeezing so tight he fears his blood pressure might skyrocket. "Mari, I-"

She's rising. He feels silly, feels a tear roll down his cheek, feels her knee bump against his own as she untangles from him and settles to straddle his lap instead. Marinette raises her arms and at first he believes her to be embracing him, but instead of his shoulder blades, her hands find his face and then so do her lips, her sweet, plump pink lips pressing against his tear streaked cheek.

"Adrien." He hears her say, a breath, a ghost of her mouth brushing his face.

"Kiss-her, kill-me, kiss-her, kill-me!" His heart cries against the pads of her fingers until he listens to its chant, his mouth finding hers finally and without ceremony, "Kss-kss, kss-kss, kss-kss," his heart hissing as it settles, fragments of stress breathing out of him as she steals his oxygen away.

A part of him thought she would jerk back, another part knew she wouldn't. He can't tell if it's Chat or Adrien that had been so confident in this matter alone, but he does know the facts: 1) Mari had once told Chat about her lingering affection for Adrien and 2) He's in love with her, through and through.

He cups her face when he fears she will pull away, and is relieved when her chin nudges their mouths even closer together. He finds her lips with his tongue and then her teeth before they tangle in absolution.

There's only one way this is headed and they both know it.

Adrien's arms are shaking when he finagles them beneath her soft thighs and stands. Whether or not the trembles are from melancholy or desire is up for debate. He takes a half stumbled step away from the couch and hefts her up his body in one jerky motion, her knees digging into his hips as he makes his way around the coffee table to the friendly and familiar territory of her bed. Her bed that still smells like him. Like her. Like them.

He hopes the smell will linger more strongly after he leaves later on. If he leaves at all.

Adrien thought he would be more nervous than this, watching Marinette's dark hair splay against the delicate pink pillows as he rocks her gently backward to lay on the bed, her knees still clamped to his waist like a vice. On the contrary, there could not be any more peace in his heart save for the guilt that still tumbles like acrobats in his stomach. He decides that maybe he can drown himself in her love; make the dark thoughts go away. He has a sneaking suspicion she might be thinking the same.

The next parts are easy. Fluid. Like the world has stopped around them. Like people aren't watching TV a room over or doing laundry downstairs. Like birds aren't chirping and the clouds aren't moving across the sky. Just the two of them, folding together with tender kisses and loud hearts. Clothes vanish with the space between them, and when he finally asks for her consent and she exhales a yes like it might be the last thing she'll ever say and he pushes inside of her, the world breathes again. The washing machine churns. The birds soar high. The TV channel is changed. No one is more the wiser than the both of them, who, in this moment, see everything so vividly.

Her pupils pull wide and it feels so unearthly to watch the primal reaction take her.

His bones are disintegrating. His arms are still shaking. Adrien needs this. Needs her. He moves. He bucks, then puts a light hand against her hip in recompense, ring shocking her side with cold. He never meant to be so rough, but the guttural sound that rumbles in her chest has him doing it again. He throbs. His fingers grip into her hip. He won't ask for forgiveness if she never asked for an apology.

Marinette is a cameo. She is ivory and gold trimmed pages. Her hands are like prayers that whisper hymns down his body, singeing trails of gospel in their wake. He's looking for existence between her legs; creation; life.

Adrien's hips grind in tight circles. She raises her body to meet them thrust for thrust.

She feels biblical in this moment but only in a way so sinful it would swallow him in flames. He feels her fire rising in his throat all the way from where he's buried in her core, chokes on the smoke in his lungs, licks charcoal off his teeth, and by god, feels tears brim in his eyes. He let's his arms give out. Let's their chests flush together and holds her tight.

And his heart whispers, "Weak. Weak. Weak."

Hands on his cheeks. "Adrien…"

Lies in his chest. "Marinette, I-" But a truth breaks free. "I love you." He feels lighter, and doesn't notice his tear splattering against her neck because she's up again and kissing him and suddenly she is the one who is trembling.

"I love you, too."

A knot unfurls somewhere in his belly and he fights the urge to rock his hips back into her again. His knuckles are white in the sheets on either side of her, but the one truth set free begs for the other to be let loose. He wishes her eyes would grill him to reveal himself, but she is unknowing and that hope is in vain. He has to make the decision himself, and for a moment, he is afraid he will say something; afraid he will say nothing.

"Marinette," He croaks at last, because he can only conjure her name on his tongue and at least he could remember the way she looks right now if she forces him to leave her forever. Her skies for eyes light up; he has her attention, but he can't bear to watch her expression change. Adrien remains nestled in the cradle of her hips, dipping his mouth to hover by her ear as he finally whispers with fissured confidence, "I'm Chat Noir."

His cock is deep inside of her and she wonders if he could have any less tact. This is her first and foremost thought, before what he says settles in. Adrien retreats slowly from her ear, and looks down upon her with blatant anticipation in his green eyes. Green eyes like Chat Noir's. Because he isChat Noir. Those eyes leave her face when she does not immediately respond, instead making contact with the window behind the headboard. The reflection of the light spread there turns his green eyes silver and hollow. Hollow like the pits of his collarbones. Hollow like his cheeks during winter fashion shows. She can tell he is waiting for the worst, but how can he be when he rests between her legs with his hands tracing pacing paths along her thighs?

"I love you, Chat Noir."

Their teeth clash in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He bucks again, she gasps, and the dark clouds locked behind his sternum have never dissipated faster. His hand leaves her thigh to find the junction between them, long beautiful fingers touching and teasing. The heady noise she makes has him grinning that Cheshire grin that Marinette recognizes so agonizingly, and it is this small physical action that settles his truth under her skin. It itches in all the right ways.

She bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep in the downright needy noises threatening to spill, leaving them pinned to the back of her throat, desperate to try and keep herself under control in his wake. She's only ever touched herself, and she's always been silent; the walls are thin and technically he shouldn't be here. It was 8:30 in the morning and the two of them were getting wrapped up in each other. A thing of beauty, really.

Painfully slow, his eyes wander along her sculptural form, taking in the all-too familiar curves of her body; a faded scar across her ribcage, the sharp jut of her hipbone pressed hard against his palm, the way her breasts rise to meet his chest. She's watching him watch her and her heart is pounding wildly like a frantic rabbit in a cage.

He slides a hand off the V of her waist and traces up her side to the crook of her neck, past her jugular and over her chin. His thumb swipes the corner of her mouth and her eyes snap open in surprise when he suddenly pushes the digit between her teeth.

"Don't," He almost growls, "Don't hold them back."

Heat seers straight through her. This boy is Adrien and also not Adrien. He is Adrien's body but another man's voice- Chat's voice- his soft gentlemanly edges made jagged by desire. She throbs, begging for release, a warbled moan slipping out of her lips. She can feel herself soaking against his palm, hear her blood in her ears, taste the salt of his sweat on the pad of his thumb. She is, embarrassingly, salivating, and her tongue tentatively prods the finger lodged between her teeth.

The nail of his thumb clicks against her molars as he hooks the side of her mouth. Her moan is made loud and Mari knows he is satisfied by the way he slows his movements. They are barely thrusts now, something comparable to low tide, a taunting pace that melts her into a whimpering mess, pleading softly; let me come, let me come!

Adrien's thumb finds her clit and it is over for her. Once, twice, three times, and she is gone. A world is created and destroyed inside of her as light flares like a supernova behind her eyelids. He spills inside of her with similar imagery, and in a pretzel of sweaty limbs and murmured "I love you"s, Adrien finally finds his long awaited rest, face pressed into her chest.

Their breaths move as one, and something beautiful has happened today, but at the end of it all she's lying to him, and it kills her.


End file.
